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It’s one degree above freezing.
The morning sun shines
without inhibition.
The next snowstorm won’t begin
for another 20 hours.

One more blind alley covered
in 3-month-old ice
to discover, or forget.
Everything that collects in the bottom
of the bag belongs somewhere else

to no one
you or I ever knew.

Which one of us ran away?
Which one was left clutching
the handles, waiting
for rope burns
to sting again?

I tied your boot laces so tight
one night, you claimed
you had no feeling left in your toes.
I muttered under my breath:
“What feeling did you have to lose?”

+ we both laughed.
Didn’t we?

Years of foundation shifts
+ wild weather whiplash
warped the hardwood floors.
Missing compliments + pet names
+ a handful of marbles

pooled in the middle
of the bedroom.

Everything got misplaced—
eventually including us.
Some mornings,
like this one,
I find myself

looking under books + in drawers.
I retrace my steps
+ end up 1,200 miles east
inside a subway car
heading too far north.

No one exits the train
at the last stop.

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